Imagination. It suffocates me, I drown in the ashen taste of it. I welcome it, drink the fluid of thoughts down into my lungs. I breathe words, phrases. I speak situations and see chances untaken. The ink of my blood pours freely over my open wounds, the scabs of my creation.

I choose to feel rhyme, think rhythm. I am the ruler of my written domain and the chosen words that create my cities are abundant.

My mountains grow with adjectives, and my forests flow with the images of rock-creek-beds which slumber with pallid flesh and rotten bone. I find my delights in ink stained fingers and hearing the proud sigh of a picture well written. I am the storyteller in which only I can reign in the monstrous creatures I create.

I am whole only in the words and situations of others, the non-tangible. A smile to me is a warm letter and goodbye is only "The End" that introduces the next story. I am a thousand lives in one body and I share the earth with the most remarkable creature.

Insanity is me.

Take my blood, my body, my life and I am no longer physically whole... But take my words, my ink, my love and you have destroyed me. A hollow shell in an empty world.